Glenfiddich and Black Lace
by Roadrunnerz
Summary: The Lightman Group comes into a lot of money, Cal & Gillian decide to treat themselves to a gift but they end up buying gifts for each other. Secret Santa fic for LornaCat!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Usual fanfic disclaimers apply. I don't own these characters. If I did we'd still be watching them! Any mistakes are all mine. Story takes place shortly after the series finale. And lastly, big shout out to McBreezy for organising this and keeping the fandom going!

* * *

><p><strong>Glenfiddich and Black Lace <strong>

_The Lightman Group offices _

_Two days before Christmas_

Gillian Foster's blue eyes widened. "_How_ much?"

"Read it," Cal told her, handing her the letter. It was handwritten in messy cursive script on company stationary.

_'Eight-months ago I was facing a twenty-year sentence. Was about to lose custody of my children. You and Dr. Foster were the only two who saw through my ex-wife's lies. The only two people who believed me. __Last week I booked a holiday trip for myself and my sons and my firm posted a record profit. __Neither of them would be possible without you. I hear the recession hasn't been as kind to your firm as it's been to mine. Thought the holidays might be a good excuse to change that and give something back. _

_Merry Christmas_

_your grateful former client, __Stephen Donely' _

Gillian eyed the enclosed cheque incredulously. "That's one hell of a grateful client."

"Gets us out of the red, doesn't it?"

Gillian nodded. "Oh yes...and then some."

Cal grinned and slouched down into a chair across from her desk. "What are we gonna do with the 'then some'?"

Her face was pensive, debating it. "Christmas bonuses for the staff. Decent ones for a change."

"Alright...but not too decent, yeah? Don't need it going their heads or anything."

She scribbled a number on a piece of scrap paper. "Yes?"

"Aye, aye," he nodded in agreement.

"Plus a nice bottle of wine to go with it."

Cal made a face. "You spoil them."

"You torment them. Just trying to keep a healthy balance."

Cal leaned forward and propped his elbows on her desk. The blue dress she wore today was just low cut enough that it was hard not to ogle. He marvelled that after all these years he still never tired of looking at every single part of her.

"You know what else I think?" she asked him, leaning forward herself so that their faces were only inches apart. The soft, subtle smell of her fragrance entered his nostrils now and that combined with the cut of that dress made it so damn hard to focus...even as her eyes demanded it.

"What?" he mumbled. Staring.

She was unperturbed. As usual. In fact, Cal swore there was amusement on her face. Who else did she want to toss their windfall to? A charitable donation probably for some poor, suffering souls somewhere on this planet. Knowing Foster, it would involve babies. Or puppies. Or both.

At least_ that_ would be a tax write-off.

"I think we should get ourselves something too."

"Huh?"

"We've been putting in insane hours trying to keep this place afloat. We deserve a treat."

Not what he was expecting, but he liked it.

"One grand each, to spend on ourselves but...on one condition."

"Rules? Bloody hell, Foster. We need rules to buy ourselves a Christmas gift?"

"It has to be..." she went on, ignoring his outburst. "Something we _want_. Not something we need. Not a new laptop for Emily or repairs for your ridiculously expensive watch...something purely for pleasure."

"My Rolex gives me pleasure."

There was something challenging in her expression that he couldn't place. She still stumped him sometimes when he tried to read her. But he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the challenge. That she was still a puzzle that he hadn't quite figured out.

"Rule number two; we have to get it before the end of the day..."

Cal swiped the cheque out of her hands and they shook on it. "One grand to buy myself something that'll make me happy. Think I can handle that, luv."

* * *

><p><em>Later <em>

Gillian Foster eyed the freshly made _mille-feuilles _and _éclairs _behind the pastry shop window with delight.

You could buy a lot of French pastries with a thousand dollars.

Or one_ really_ nice pair of French heels. Her legs did look good in Louboutins.

"Can I help you?" the girl behind the counter interrupted her thoughts.

Gillian pointed to a splendid looking chocolate croissant. "I'll take one of those."

Two down, nine-hundred and ninety-eight dollars to go.

She savoured it as she made her way through the crowded mall. Throngs of people were holiday shopping. A wave of sadness hit her as she observed them.

She'd gone holiday shopping too. Had half a dozen gifts already neatly wrapped at home. But it was different, buying something for loved ones, and buying something for someone you _loved_. She hadn't done the latter since...Alec.

Gillian finished her croissant, suddenly losing her appetite for shopping.

An old man stood in the middle of the packed mall, ringing a Salvation Army bell, next to a suspended plastic bubble full of bills and coins. Gillian debated giving him the rest of her bills and leaving.

Cal wouldn't know the difference.

"Yeah...he would," she corrected herself aloud. Who was she kidding? Of course he'd know she was lying. Besides, he'd probably demand proof to see what she got. They did shake on it after all.

What made her come up with the ridiculous idea, anyway? she wondered. _What was the point? _

Sure they deserved something for themselves for all the heart and soul they poured into Lightman Group, day in and day out. But they didn't _need_ anything. Not in the same way so many others did.

The display window of a liquor store caught her attention. Elaborately designed bottles filled with expensive liqueurs, covered with fake snow and mistletoe.

A salesman was standing at the edge at the entrance and made eye contact with her. "New shipment of scotch just arrived for the holidays. For that special someone in your life."

Gillian didn't say anything.

The young, dark-skinned man smiled, reading her mind. "Or for yourself."

_Nice catch_, she thought. Come to think of it, she did know someone who loved a good bottle of scotch.

"What's special about your new shipment?" she asked.

"It came with two special edition bottles of 30-year old, single malt Glenfiddich. One was just put on hold over the phone. I don't expect it to be long before the other one is gone."

He could have been speaking Greek for all Gillian knew about whisky. "So it's good?"

If he was put off by her ignorance, she didn't catch a trace of it on his face. "It's...exceptional," he explained. "There are 40 and 50 year old single-malts too. But those are hard to come by. This...it's the next best thing."

"Someone who likes scotch would like it?"

"Oh yes. Love it."

"How much?"

"Six-hundred and twenty-five. It comes in a hand-carved gift box."

Gillian swallowed and her heart skipped a beat. Over six-hundred dollars for a bottle of liquor. It was insane. Unjustifiable, really.

Cal would have a heart attack.

But once he got over that, he'd _love_ it.

She pictured the look in his eyes when he saw it and it made her smile. "I'll take it."

* * *

><p>Cal Lightman ambled through the crowded mall, cringing at sight of the garish festive decor. What the hell did dancing Santas and singing elves have to do with baby Jesus?<p>

What seemed like a good idea two hours ago, suddenly made him want to gauge his eyes out. Tossing away a grand to a charity sounded marvellous in comparison to trying to buy himself something in this madhouse.

Truth was, he could care less about _things_.

His wardrobe consisted of jeans and black boots. He owned a handful of non-descript suits because sometimes occasion dictated he wear them. Mostly against his will. He cared even less about brands or toys. He was neither a gourmand nor a collector and he already had a beautiful home with all the furnishings he needed.

When he did see something fancy in a shop window tonight, it was always Emily he thought of. Whether it was the latest Apple gadget or a trendy winter coat, his daughter was always the imagined recipient. He thought of buying her one of the new electronic tablets he'd seen, showing Gillian his prize and mailing it off to Berkeley the next day. He'd make Emily swear to secrecy and no one would be the wiser.

_Who are you kidding? She'll know you're lying. _

He walked past a lingerie store that seemed fancier than any of the other ones he'd seen tonight, ones filled with scores of teenage girls. It had a French name that he couldn't pronounce. One of the outfits in the display window caught Cal's eye and this time it definitely wasn't Emily he envisioned wearing it.

The short, black lace negligee was exquisite. From its daring, plunging cut to the intricate pattern that ran along its edges.

"Are you looking for a gift?" a saleslady asked him.

"Yes...I mean, no. No. Not this kind."

"It's beautiful, the black one, isn't it?"

"Yeah...sure." When was the last time he bought lingerie for a woman? Not since Zoe. Not since forever.

"She would look beautiful in it. Your lady."

_Yeah, she would. Stunning._

"I don't have..." he started, then he stopped. He didn't owe this woman an explanation.

"You look at that like you do have someone. Someone you'd like to see wearing that."

Cal squinted at the old saleslady. "What are you? A mind-reader?"

"No. A woman."

Cal chuckled. He liked people who weren't put off by his bluntness. They were a rare breed. "So, you think I should get it?" It was a dumb question. As if she'd say no.

"Of course," she told him, with a smile. "She will love it and it will make you a happy man."

Cal liked her answer. "If you put it that way. How much is it?"

"What size do you need? I only have two."

He hesitated, maybe he shouldn't know. But he spent enough time checking her out that of course he did. So he told the saleslady. "You didn't answer my question. How much?"

He read the disappointment in her face. She thought she'd lose the sale when she told him the price. What she didn't know was that he had ten hundred dollar bills burning a hole in his pocket.

"It's handmade in France," she added. "You won't find these anywhere else."

"How much?" Cal pressed.

"Five hundred and seventy-five."

"Bloody hell..."

"We have some less expensive ones in the back," she offered.

Cal pulled out his bills. "I like this one."

* * *

><p><em>Lightman Residence <em>

Cal grabbed a bottle of beer from the fridge and sat on a barstool in his kitchen, staring at the shopping bag he'd set down on his sofa.

_What the hell were you thinking? _

Just because Gillian Foster was the first person he imagined when walking past a lingerie store didn't mean that actually going inside and buying her the sexiest thing he saw was a good idea.

Ogling her at work, while she humoured him, wasn't quite the same as giving her _that_.

_That _was for someone you whose skin you wanted to feel against yours. Someone whose body you wanted to...

Cal swallowed, forcing the thought from his mind.

_That _wasn't for your best friend and business partner.

So what if both of those applied to Gillian Foster? Cal Lightman wasn't sure they'd ever merge. Even he wasn't selfish enough to risk destroying what he already had in order to get what he wanted. Some friendships were so rare they weren't worth ruining over desires. No matter how deep those desires ran.

It was pouring outside now, a heavy, ice-cold winter rain.

Cal was glad he made it home before the weather brought the DC traffic to a complete standstill. It was even cold enough to justify lighting the fireplace tonight.

He got up to do just that, when he heard a loud knock on the door.

Who in the world would be out in this weather? Diehard carollers?

He peeked through the peephole and yanked the door open when he saw who was standing on the other side. "Foster?"

She was drenched.

"God, Cal...I'm so cold!"

He helped her take off her wet coat off as she rubbed her hands together. "What are you doing here?"

"Your place...is on my way home from the mall. Had something to drop off for you."

"So you walked?"

She shivered. "No, I drove...but the belt on my coat got stuck as I was getting out of the car. By the time I freed it...did I mention it's pouring out there, Cal?"

He smirked. "Didn't have to, luv. Was about to start the fireplace. Come in. Warm up."

"No, no...I didn't plan on staying. Just wanted to bring you something."

"Work?"

"No...I," she paused, weighing her words. "Look I...couldn't find anything for myself tonight, so..." She handed him the bag. "I got you something instead."

He took the bag from her freezing hands with a smile. "When are you going to get selfish like the rest of the planet, Foster?"

She flashed him a grin in return. "It'll be my New Year's resolution."

He rubbed one of her hands between his. "You're freezing and your collar is soaked. Get changed, let me throw that into the dryer and warm up before you head back out."

"Changed into what?"

_I have something you could wear. _

"Emily has some clothes upstairs."

She narrowed her brows. "You have a shoehorn I can use to get into her clothes?"

So Foster had a few more curves than his tiny daughter. Cal went upstairs, found a clean shirt and came back down, tossing it to her. "See if you can squeeze your giant self into this."

She lowered her shoulders, still shivering. "Fine. But you're not throwing this into the dryer. It'll come out a perfect fit for Emily."

He scrunched up his face. "I could see Em wearing that."

"She'd hate it." She have him a friendly slap. "Don't you want to know what I got you?"

He gave her a push up the stairs. "I want you not to get pneumonia. Get out of those wet clothes."

She went upstairs and Cal set down her bag. Then he started a fire, wishing he'd done it earlier so that it would be roaring now.

"I put my clothes on your heater upstairs," she explained as she came back down the stairs. "Shouldn't take long to dry off." She wore the white shirt he'd handed her and a pair of chequered pyjama pants that Cal recognized from Emily's collection.

"I found something in Emily's room that wasn't a size zero," Gillian explained. Her hair was wavy from the rain, making Cal miss the days when she used to wear it like that.

"Did you open your gift?"

He shook his head. The delight was written all over her face. More than anything he wanted to see her expression when he opened it. "Not yet."

"What are you waiting for?"

"You."

Cal picked up the bag and pulled out the heavy, wooden box inside, recognizing its logo. "Is this what I think it is?"

"I don't know."

"Whoa..." It wasn't often that something threw him for a loop, but this did. _This_ was an insanely good bottle of liquor. One that would've cost the bulk of her spending money. "This is...something special. What the hell were you thinking?"

She shrugged her shoulders, her happiness infectious. "I wasn't. You like it?"

He nodded. That'd be an understatement. "Yeah..." He walked to the kitchen to get two glasses. "Lets try it out."

"Already? Don't you want to save it for a special occasion?"

Her gorgeous blue eyes were radiant and she was making his old shirt look sexy as hell. That combination was plenty special.

"Nah..." He opened the bottle, poured her some and then clinked his glass with hers. "World could end tomorrow, Foster."

"You're such an optimist."

Cal swallowed his scotch and watched as she did the same, making an effort not to react as it burned her throat.

He poured them both some more. "Feel warmer?"

"Yeah..." She swallowed the second sip more cautiously. "Isn't Emily home yet?" she asked him.

Cal shook his head. "Change of plans. She's going to spend Christmas with Zoe and Randi. Or Ricki, or whatever the hell his name is."

"Sorry," Gillian said, meaning it, as she curled her legs up on his sofa. "I know you'd love to have her here."

Cal shrugged. He would but he was getting used to not getting what he wanted lately.

"I'm taking my mother to her brother's place tomorrow night, you're welcome to join us, you know that, right?"

"As in misery loves company?"

"Hey..." she whacked him on the arm. "I love spending time with my family," she lied.

"Right."

"So?"

He cocked his eyebrows. "So?"

"What did you get for yourself?"

"Nothing."

"Yeah...right." She caught his lie as easily as he caught hers. "What's in that shopping bag?"

_Shit. _

"It's for Emily..." He wanted to suck back the words as soon as he'd spit them out. Could there _be _a worse lie? Could he give her a better excuse to check out his purchase?

And predictably, Gillian did just that. Reaching over for the bag and scooping it up into her lap. "At least let me see what you got for her, since you wont admit to failing at this as miserably as I did." She raised her brows as she pulled out the sleek, black box inside the from the bag. "You got Emily something from _Plaisir d'Amour_?"

_Not-bloody-likely_ was what he read on her face now.

She opened the box, running her fingers along the black lace. "This is...wow. It's...beautiful."

Her eyes didn't meet his as she gently put it back into the box.

There was so much written on her face now. A myriad of emotions she tried to hide and might've succeeded were he not the one who was looking. Disappointment. Hurt. Sadness. Jealousy_. _

He felt like a voyeur. Felt guilty for seeing so much of what he had no right to see. He forced himself to stop looking. .

"For Wallowski?" she asked softly. He knew that she didn't want to hear the answer.

_No. For you. _

"You think she'll like it?" he asked. _Coward. _

Gillian finished the rest of what was in her glass. "Yeah...she'll love it. It's...beautiful."

Cal poured her some more.

The flames from the fireplace roared now and its soft light illuminated her. She'd washed the make-up off her face and the warmth brought colour back to her cheeks. He'd never seen her look more beautiful.

He clinked his glass with hers a second time because he couldn't think of anything else to do. Or say.

She returned his toast with silence of her own and quickly emptied the contents of her glass. Trying to numb what she felt so he couldn't see it anymore. It was a lousy defence against his skills, but it was the only effective one she had at her disposal. He didn't blame her for using it.

"Have you had any dinner?" he prompted. At the rate she was downing his scotch, food was probably a good idea.

"I did," she told him with smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Chocolate croissant."

"That's it?"

"It was one..." she paused. "Very good croissant. _Très bon_. _Magnifique_."

Cal cringed. The alcohol was hitting her hard and fast. "You speak French now, luv?"

She poured them both some more. "_Mais oui. _It's a language...I'm the language expert."

"Right..." He got up. "I have some steaks in the freezer. Let's eat something a little more substantial than flaky French rolls."

"Save them," Gillian told him and this time she barely bothered masking the resentment in her voice. "For Wallowski."

Cal didn't say anything.

"I think..." she mumbled, as she got up. "I should go."

He didn't want to let her go. Not like this. "Your clothes aren't dry yet."

"I can't drive in your shirt? You never drive in it?"

_Funny Foster. _

"You can't drive at all right now," he corrected her. "I'll call you a cab. Or stay here, there's more than one spare room."

"My car is in your driveway," she protested. "I'm fine."

He raised his brows. "You're not getting behind the wheel right now. I'll drive you home in your car and take a cab back."

"Really?" She wasn't amused. "You've had as much as I have."

_No, actually. Not quite. _

Irate blue eyes met his, as she stepped away from him, ready to leave. "Don't patronize me, Cal."

He blocked her as he stood in front of her. She was shorter than him without her heels. The tip of her nose level with his lips. "Come _on,_ Gill," he tried to reason. "You're way smarter than this."

Lowering her shoulders, she exhaled, acknowledging as much. He'd finally pushed the right button. "Fine."

She plopped herself back down on his sofa. "In that case...I'll stay and help you enjoy your gift. You did say that was an option, yes? Or are you expecting company?"

"No..." he shook his head. "Not at all."

Cal had to make a concerted effort to keep up the pace with her and he didn't entirely succeed. His very expensive bottle of scotch was finished in record time and the only food he had time to prepare was a plate of crackers, olives and some robust English cheese that she barely touched.

He wasn't surprised that she never made it up to the guest room. Falling asleep on his couch instead.

Nor was he surprised that she was miserably ill a few hours later.

He knocked on the door of his bathroom when he all he heard on the other side was silence for the longest time.

"You alright in there, Foster?"

She came out looking like death warmed up, arms wrapped around her midsection. "Fantastic."

She was sober enough once again that he caught the embarrassment on her face.

He wanted to take her in his arms and tell her that he was the one who should be embarrassed. At least her reactions were honest.

But he couldn't bring himself to do it.


	2. Chapter 2

_The Lightman Group Offices _

_The next morning_

Gillian Foster winced as she closed the blinds in her office. She, who loved the brightness, wished her work area was as dark and glum as Cal's today.

She eyed the bottle of ibuprofen sitting on her desk. It was probably too soon to take two more. Even if the three she'd taken this morning barely touched her pounding headache.

She opted for another glass of water instead, hoping her stomach could handle it.

It wasn't the embarrassment of puking her guts out in his bathroom that made her wince. They'd seen each other in worse states of disrepair. Had known each other far too long not to. They'd gotten drunk together before too. But there were always justifiable reasons. Company triumphs. Company failures. His divorce. _Her _divorce. Plus, the operative word was_ together_.

It wasn't just her getting smashed while he watched.

_That part was pathetic. Truly. _

She caught Cal Lightman in the doorway, poking his head into her darkened office before barging in.

"Didn't expect to see you here this early," he said, his expression a mix of surprise and concern.

"I'm always early."

He eyed the ibuprofen on her desk. "It's okay to call in sick once every five years, Foster. Sure the boss won't mind."

She snatched the bottle of pills and tossed it into her drawer, before slamming it shut. "I thought I had a partner, not a boss."

He sat down across from her. "It was a joke."

"I'm fine."

"Look, last night..."

"Last night was a mistake," she told him, cutting him off.

"Last night you were human," he tried, gently. "That's not a bad thing, you know. Not something to beat yourself up for...doesn't change a damn thing."

_Of all the times to read me. Bastard. _

"Not beating myself up," she corrected him icily. "Telling you the truth. It's what we do here, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

He held her gaze just long enough to do something he rarely did. Make her uncomfortable.

"Well, then..." he told her, getting up and backing off. Respecting the insurmountable wall she'd put up. "There's some videotape I need you to look at from the Singh case. Don't entirely trust Torres' observations on this one."

Gillian bit her tongue. _Of course you don't trust her. You don't trust anyone. Probably not even yourself. _

And with those words they were back to their daily routine.

The one in which she played the role of his wingman. His partner. His pal. His best mate.

_"Foster, make sure the payroll adds up without us drowning in red ink." _

_"Foster, drop whatever you're doing and come with me because I need a second opinion."_

_"Foster, clean up my messes." _

He ogled her and looked at her like he wanted her as much as she wanted him. And some days he gave her so many mixed signals that even a doctorate in psychology wouldn't come close to helping her figure them out.

She put up with it all, because she never met anyone more brilliant in his field. He inspired her and challenged her, every single day. And really, what was sexier than that? Over time his passion became hers. Not just the work. But the man, flesh and blood and flaws and all.

Truth was she loved him.

Loved him and wanted him. In every sense of the word. And it hurt like hell to realize that at the end of the day she wasn't the one he wanted to see in expensive French lace.

"Get over it," she chided herself with a whisper. "You're not sixteen anymore."

_If you can't stand to watch his revolving door of women anymore, you do have the option of leaving. _

Except then she'd lose her best friend in the process and that might hurt even more.

_What a mess_.

Somehow, she made it through the rest of the day. She noticed that Torres was dying to ask what was wrong, but thankfully had the good grace not to. And Loker, blissfully unaware of everything, rambled on about a study where bonobos mastered lexigrams faster than any monkeys before them. For all his damn enthusiasm, she should've shown just the mildest interest.

But today wasn't about pleasing others, It was about crossing the finish line. Her biggest triumph was eating a sandwich in the late afternoon and being able to keep it down.

Her office was still dark by the time she got back to it in the early evening. Cal seemed to have disappeared which her struck as odd. She typically got here before him but he usually left after her. If he did leave before her, it was never without saying good-bye. Even when they'd argued about something or other during the day.

Gillian suddenly noticed the box that sat on her desk.

It was elegantly gift-wrapped and there was an unmarked envelope on top. Gillian sat down and opened it. There was a Christmas card inside, with a lonely pine tree on front and Cal's messy handwriting inside.

_-The only one who made a mistake last night was me. Because I didn't have the guts to tell you the truth. It was meant for you. It always is. _

Gillian opened the box, knowing what was inside before she saw the exquisite black lace.

Tears welled up in her eyes, completely against her will, as she sank back into her chair, wondering whether it was possible to feel terrified and ecstatic all at once.

* * *

><p><em>Lightman Residence <em>

He sat at home and turned on the TV, channel-surfing, unable to focus.

That was the problem once you crossed the line; there was no going back. But after today and last night, he realized it was time. He owed her the truth, regardless of the consequences. Owed her a hell of a lot more than that, really. But the truth was a good start.

A knock on the door made him jump up from the couch.

He went to open it, not entirely surprised to see Foster standing on the other side.

Aside from her obvious exhaustion, he couldn't read much of anything on her face.

He motioned for her to come inside and she did, making no attempt to take off her coat.

"I got your gift," was all she said, eyes on him.

"You should've gotten it last night," he acknowledged. "I'm sorry."

"Why?" she needed to know. "Why not tell me?"

"Because..." he stuck his hands in his pockets, wishing she'd step into his kitchen. Or his livingroom. Wishing she'd sit down so he could distract himself with something other that her unwavering gaze. "Because, I'm a coward. Because you're not a Clara or a Wallowski."

She narrowed her brows, letting him know she didn't understand.

"You see, if I screw things up with them I don't lose my best friend." He leaned against the wall, laying his final card on the table. "And we both know I screw things up. All the time."

She exhaled, her expression still unreadable.

She never rambled like he did and he was used to her pauses when she spoke. There was no such thing as an uncomfortable silence between them. Until now.

_Come on, Gill. Say something. Anything. _

She didn't oblige. Choosing to take a step towards him instead, her face was only inches away and her eyes level with his. Her height in heels a perfect fit for his.

"There's a simple solution for that, you know," she said softly. She was so close that he could feel the warmth of her body. Much too close to focus on what she was saying.

"Oh, yeah?"

She moved closer still, so that he could see the rise and fall of her breath below her collar bone. Bodies touching each other, her hands reached up to his face, fingers deftly running along his hairline, before pulling him towards her, letting him know she wanted it as much as he did.

He'd held her in his arms before. But not like this.

She leaned in towards him as her lips began exploring his, slowly and tentatively at first. His breathing quickened in response to hers, kissing her back, hard and deep, tasting her, wanting her.

Her hands made their way underneath his t-shirt, moving downwards, cold fingers trailing down his lower back, digging into his flesh, making him groan. Cal lifted her coat of her shoulders, sending it tumbling to the ground as she pushed him against the wall.

He'd almost forgotten how amazing it was to do this with someone you loved.

He hastily tugged at her blouse, easing it out of her skirt, until it was her smooth skin he felt underneath his fingertips. He wanted to explore every single inch of her. Staking his claim in the process. _His Gillian_. Finally.

_You were worth the wait. _

She kissed him harder then, his lower lip caught between her teeth as his thumb up ran along her stomach, searching for the clasp on her bra. Impatient and clumsy, his watch scratched her side, making her cry out. Cal tasted the metallic taste of blood on his lip just before she pulled away, catching her breath.

Her eyes darkened. "I'm sorry..."

"Me too." Both their acts drew traces of blood and Cal licked his lips as he protectively pulled her back into his space. Maybe it was impossible for them not to hurt each other sometimes, but maybe it was okay. They were strong enough.

They paused and her hands rested on his chest, toying with the fabric of his t-shirt as her head tilted back, completely content in his arms. "I should go..."

_Go? Are you trying to kill me?_

"No, no..." he shook his head. A cold shower wasn't how he envisioned this moment ending. "You shouldn't."

She leaned her head against his shoulder, before turning to face him with a smile. Her index finger ran along his lower lip, wiping away a drop of blood that lingered there. "My mother's waiting for me to pick her up. I'm late already."

His lips trailed the nape of her neck, unable to get enough of her. "I'll call a car service," he told her, only half kidding. She was beyond exhausted. Playing chauffeur was a lousy idea.

Gillian giggled. "Not if you want me to survive this Christmas."

His arms were still wrapped around her as she tried to tuck her blouse back into her skirt. "I want you with me this Christmas." _Every Christmas. _

"New Year's," she promised.

"Sooner," he insisted as he picked up her coat and helped her back into it.

"I'll work on it."

He wasn't quite ready to let go. One more kiss, gentler this time, letting her know he loved her as much as he wanted her. "Drive safe, luv."

"Aye, aye."

He watched her tighten the belt on her coat as she stepped back outside, into the cold December night, when something else occurred to him. "Hey, Foster..."

She turned around. "Yeah..."

"You said there was a simple solution to making this work?"

"There is," she told him, winking before turning her back to him once more. "Don't screw it up."

He stood in the doorway, watching her until she drove off. Then he closed the door, a grin spreading across his face. _Not a bloody chance, Foster._ _Not this time. _


End file.
